I shower with the door open, with my mate coming in and out, watching me through the reflection in the mirror. When he repeatedly stops and sits against the counter, I shoo him away and tell him to get dressed when, truthfully, his ogling makes me feel feminine-womanly-and I like that feeling. And I'm sure he can tell. We aren't perfect by any means, fighting like we did, but I am thankful for how quickly we apologized and well, moved on. My parents arrive within the hour, and the last thing I would have wanted was for David and me to be glaring at each other from across the dining table. I suppose I'll be staring at him for different reasons now-lustful reasons-and he'll be looking back with those eyes that roamed every intimate piece of me. And, of course, our parents will be there, which sounds quite horrific now that I think about it.
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